Rise of a Champion
by Mors Lex
Summary: A young Imperial strives to become Grand Champion in the bloody and deadly Imperial City Arena. Learning the ways of the Games, will he survive to see his dream become a reality? Read on, my children... read on.
1. Chapter 1

"By Shinji! We have a new champion! Esteemed champion, leave the Arena now, and rest. You've earned it!"

Those were the words that Ander yearned to hear. He was an Arena combatant for nearly 2 months, and he had only faced one opponent. That match had been the most adrenaline filled moment of his life. He was paired up against an Imperial woman in a fight to the death. The crowd was deafening, his opponent was bloodthirsty, and his fellow combatants on The Blue Team had been itching to throw him into the ring. The Blademaster had shoved an iron short sword into his right hand and a leather shield into the other. The Arena combatants were given different equipment every time, so that the odds of survival were an even 50/50.

…The commentator had begun to speak "Welcome, welcome, to the Arena. We have some fresh blood for you, as two new Pit Dogs are ready to do battle to prove their worth! Ladies and gentlemen, let the match begin!"

And with that, the old rusty gates screeched open to allow the fighters through. Fumbling with his sword, Ander had just enough time to remove the weapon from its scabbard and raise his shield to block the rattling blow from The Yellow Team's Pit Dog. The Imperial battle maiden was armed with an iron long sword, a fur shield, and a leather helm. Preferring the light raiment, she moved with the agility of a fox, and struck with the ferocity of a Xivilai.

Shaking his arm to re-establish the circulation, Ander quickly did the only thing that an intelligent man would do: run away screaming. This brought roaring laughter from the crowds, and the commentator referred to him as "a scared little ninny", which was exactly what Ander felt like.

"Running from a woman!" he berated himself, "what is she going to do? What can she do? She is old enough to be my grandmother! Remember what Owyn taught you: 'The Arena may seem empty, but keep your wits about you and you will find all you need.'"

Turning around, he quickly surveyed his surroundings. To his left was a stone pillar about 20 feet high with a chain attached to it and a neck iron at the end, and to his right was the Arena wall, lined with blood coated spikes. Thinking frantically, he hatched a plan. Turning to face his opponent, Ander saw that she was laughing. This worked into his plan, for as soon as she heaved back with a wheezing intake of breath, he threw his shield right into her sternum, knocking the wind out of her. Ander instantaneously put his sword between his teeth and began to climb the stone pillar, using the chain as a pulley rope. Once at the top, he searched for his opponent. He saw her about three feet away from the foot of the pillar.

The crowd was on its feet now, watching keenly for what the apparently insane Blue Team combatant was going to do next. Ander felt their eyes on him. Their gazes pierced him like arrows. Exhaling deeply to calm himself, he tightened his grip on the chain, took a deep breath, grasped his sword in his free hand, and shot off the side of the pillar. The wind rushed through his hair, ruffled his lucky tunic that he wore under his light raiment. The chain went taut as it stretched as far as it could go. Traveling in an arc towards the other side, Ander aimed at his target, which was dead ahead of him, and hurled his sword at the opposing combatant. She caught the quivering projectile on her shield with a triumphant laugh. She didn't see what hit her.

Gaining speed as he moved towards is enemy, Ander pulled his legs to his chest and waited until he was an inch from the Imperial woman's shield, then shot his legs forward with all his strength into the heart of the defensive accessory. The Yellow Team Pit Dog was launched about 8 feet backwards, where she hit the wall, the spikes impaling her back and piercing through to her stomach. Her head slumped forward and a line of blood poured out of her mouth. The force of his blow sent Ander flying back. He let go of the chain and smashed to the ground. Coughing, he stood up.

The Arena sounded like a thousand roars of thunder. Cries of triumph and rage over lost and won bets were enough to make Ander's ears bleed. Half deaf with the racket, he limped over to the impaled woman and yanked his sword out of her shield. Sheathing it, he walked to the middle of the Arena to be beheld by the spectators.

"Citizens of the Empire, we have a winner! All hail the combatant from the Blue Team! Victor from The Blue Team, leave the Arena now, and rest. You've earned it!"…

Sighing with content, Ander was cruelly brought back to the present by a blow to the stomach by a Dark Elf that he was sparring with. The elf outranked him, Gladiator Rank, and had only agreed to spar with Ander for the chance to beat an underling to a pulp.

"Keep your defenses up, Imperial, and try to save what's left of your dignity!" the elf sneered.

"Stop using your underhanded tricks that your fifth father taught you and I will!" Ander shot back.

Ander knew that he had gone too far. Dark Elves are _very_ one way with their women. To say that one had several fathers was the equivalent of urinating on the grave of their ancestors. The elf's eyes flared with rage and his temples protruded. Grabbing Ander's head, he dragged him over to a practice dummy and was just about to yank out a concealed knife and stick Ander through the throat when an orc came lumbering over and took a handful of blue raiment and threw the elf across the room.

The orc was wearing heavy yellow raiment and wore a steel long sword at his side. A leer covered his face and a thick scar ran from his left shoulder down to his elbow. This was Agronak gro-Malog, the Grey Prince


	2. Chapter 2

"What do you two think you're doing? If you're going to kill each other, do it in the Arena so that the crowds can see you. Besides, The Red Room has to be decorated with blood from a match, not a quibble."

The Red Room was the home of the combatants. It was there that they ate, slept, and trained. The room got its name after the first fight to commemorate the opening of the Arena when a demented Argonian went up against a homicidally insane Orc in a death match. Needless to say, the Orc won the fight and proceeded to decapitate its victim. The blood from this ordeal poured down through a vent in the middle of the ring in generous quantities. The blood hit the ground and splattered all over the walls. It eventually dried and has remained there, unwashed to remind the combatants never to fight a crazed Orc.

There then became a tradition for the victor to sneak into the carcass room and remove a limb from the body of the opposing combatant using a ceremonial knife hidden under a stone tile near the pen where Owyn kept the Arena pet hog, Porkchop. The victor then had to proceed to wave it around in the Red Room so that the blood hits the walls. You were to do this at midnight so that the Blademaster and Battlematron would not find out. Ander had a particular dislike for this practice and used a wineskin full of chicken blood and a filthy old rag for his share.

"Er… w-we were j-j-just settling a… d-dispute over w-who got the l-last bottle of wine, s-sir." Ander tried to lie.

"So the elf was going to stick you because you were preventing him from getting drunk? What a silly thing to kill for."

"The primate lies!" the Dark Elf hissed from across the room. "He dishonored my family! And everyone knows that such an offense is punishable by death!"

"Yeah, in Morrowind, you fool! Learn what the laws are here or haul your ass back to your sluttish mother!" Ander sneered.

This caused a massive reaction the elf. He turned a dark shade of black and began to sputter in undiluted rage, all the while collecting a repertoire of a training war hammer, a claymore, his knife, and a battle ax. Gro-Malog took a sharp intake of breath, chuckled a little at the well deployed insult, and immediately stepped between the elf and Ander.

The elf was absolutely blind with a killing frenzy by now. Starting to shriek in incoherent Elven, he grasped the claymore and the dagger in one hand, the claymore sticking out of the top of his fist, the knife sticking out of the bottom. He did the same with the war hammer and the battle ax in the other hand. He lunged at Ander with the intent of cutting, hacking, beating, slashing, pounding, pummeling, crushing, chopping, and flaying him until he was nothing but a pile of gelatinous substances that used to be skin surrounded by a puddle of blood. But fortunately for Ander, who was paler than a ghost with terror, Agronak was faster.

Agronak grabbed the elf by his hair, threw him to the ground, and stood on his chest to keep him from moving. He then hit Ander square in the stomach, causing him to sail tree feet away and smash into a stone pillar that supported the ceiling. He slid down and hit the floor, unconscious. The Dark Elf squirmed under Agronak's booted foot, trying to break free and mutilate the unconscious Imperial and drink his blood, such as the custom of his ancestors. Sighing, the Orc swiftly depressed his weight from the elf's chest and kicked him hard in the temple, knocking him out, too.

Ander woke up several hours later in a daze. Reaching up to rub his head, he was alarmed to find that he could not raise his hands past his forearms. Looking down, he saw that his hands were tied to some form of grated wall by thick ropes. Closing his eyes to stop the room from spinning, he felt something cold and wet rub up against his hand. Turning around as best he could, he came face to face with Porkchop, who apparently was having severe gastro intestinal distress, for as soon as Ander beheld the wee beastie, it immediately released a massive belch that smelled like low tide in the Waterfront District Latrine Area.

Scooting to the right to avoid soiling his breeches with fresh vomit, Ander looked up, tasting bile, and was surprised to see the Dark Elf tied down onto a table while lying on his stomach with one arm dangling off of the side of the table. He was glaring at Ander with a gaze that was dripping with loathing that if a look could kill, he would have been no more than a pile of dust. Upon seeing this, Ander tried to rise to his feet very slowly to avoid falling down hard on his rump. Upon reaching the squat position, he let his head slump down from the physical exertion. It was only when he did this did he notice a note on the ground reading thus:

_Idiots,_

_Due to me being so kind to murderers and provokers, I have not informed the city guard of what has transpired. You can thank me later. I am sure that you have discovered that you are restrained by now, and being again so nice to you two morons, I have placed you both within reach of the knife that we use for our victory bloodbath. I certainly hope that you will know what to do._

_But, to reach said means of escape, you will need to work together. There is a broom, a set of calipers, and a ladle within reach of the elf. And for you, Imperial, I was again merciful. Your left restraint has been cut around the midsection._

_I sincerely hope that you two will have enough brains to be able to escape, because the Arena is closed for a few weeks for refurbishing, and it's gonna be a long time until you get some food. Remember: failure means death!_

_Have fun and don't die,_

_The Grey Prince._

"Perfect! Just absolutely bloody perfect!" groaned Ander.

"Quit whining and listen, you ox," said the elf in a voice used to talk to a child. "Even though we have to work together, do not EVER consider this an act of kindness from my part. Here is what we must do: I will grab the broom and hit the calipers towards you. Cut through the remainder of the rope, grab hold of the handle of the broom, and I will pull you towards me. Place your feet against the grating of that foul little bastard's cage and grab the ladle. Hit the corner of the tile about 3 tiles away from me and grab the corner of it with the indent of said ladle. Pull it off and I will be able to get the knife and cut our bonds. Agreed?"

"I see no other alternative. Agreed." said Ander.

And so, the elf stretched his arm as far as it would go and pulled the broom handle towards him using his fingertips. He then established a firm grip on it and swung it over to the calipers. He then mustered a bit of his store of strength and knocked them towards Ander. Ander stuck one of his feet out from under him as fast as he could and re-established his weight on his one leg. Scraping the heel of his boot against the ground, it soon came loose and was removed by a swift whack from the broom. Flexing his toes, Ander stretched his leg and scooted the calipers over towards his hands. He was able to slide his arm down far enough to grab the calipers and work through the rest of the restraints.

Once the rope was cut, the elf swung the broom over to Ander, making sure to hit him in the head. Snarling, Ander took hold of the broom and locked his arm into place, pressing it tight against his side. The elf looked at him, nodded, and mustered all his strength into his arm. Ander felt himself being pulled slowly, but surely, away from his wall. He then took a deep breath, held it, clenched his sphincter, and leapt horizontally and planted his feet against Porkchop's container. Exhaling, he looked up and saw the ladle under the table.

Sighing, Ander reset his footing, stretched out his arm, and grabbed the steel ladle. Counting the tiles away from the elf, he saw that one of them was loose and worn down more than the others surrounding it. He knew that that one was the tile he was aiming for, so he raised the ladle up over his left side and brought it down as hard as he could. Steel rang out against stone and the tile shot up three feet into the air, landing with a clang some ways away. The elf raised his eyes in approval and tossed the broom away, reached down, and grabbed the handle of the rusty blade. The knife was in such bad condition that Ander was afraid that it would not last for the both of them and decided to replace it with a new one once he was out of this predicament in case he happened to be in it again.

Laughing with success, the elf swiftly sliced through his restraints as if they were scrib jelly. Standing up, he meandered over to Ander and threw the knife at the rope that was holding him. The rope immediately cut and the elf extended his hand to help Ander up. Ander smiled to himself and took the hand. Grunting, he got to his feet and patted the elf on the back.

"We work well together," Ander said, "Maybe we could win a match together sometime."

"Maybe, my friend, maybe." The elf said in replied.

"So, what _is _your name? You never really said." asked Ander.

"My name? Oh… it's Dramerhiel. I think I got some Nord in me. Disgusting beasts."

"Dramerhiel, eh? Hmm… Well Dramerhiel, I think this is the start of a beautiful friendship. Shall we get some food? I hear that The Feedbag is having a sale, so…"

"Ah, what the hell. You're buying."

"Fine."

The two made their way up the stairs, out the door, past the Gatekeeper, and to the Market District. Upon entering The Feedbag, they bumped into no one other than Owyn, the curmudgeonly old Blademaster.

"Where in Oblivion were you two? So help me Akatosh, if that Red Room is a mess when I get back there, you both will fight together in _two_ four on two death matches!"

And with that, Owyn stomped out of the restaurant in a huff.

"Ander, please tell me that you have enough money for a large meal. I always promised myself that I would make a pig out of me for my last meal on this plane of existence."


	3. Chapter 3

Ander thought he was surely going to die. Upon entering the Red Room, he and Dramerhiel were met by a sputtering Owyn. It was then that the two realized the condition they had left the room in. Training weapons were strewn around the floor, a table lay overturned, floor tiles were missing, a boot was hanging from a torch, vomit made the floor slick and slimy, Porkchop had had several fits of diarrhea which made the room smell of wet mort flesh, and various bits of clutter where scattered around the area. It was as if a retarded blind Clannfear and a couple of starving goblins had tried to kill each other down there.

"What the hell happened down here?!" Owyn shrieked.

"Will the answer get us out of being killed?" asked Ander.

"No! The only thing an answer will get you is another death match, and they will all be consecutive! One after the other, and no time to rest between them! And _if _you survive, both of you will be cleaning this place, and I want it spotless!" snarled Owyn.

"Oh. It was horrible! An army of angry Grummite Hatchlings came in and ransacked the place! They saw us and made us dance like Spriggans until the table overturned, and then we had to toss a boot onto the torch or else they would gnaw our legs off! I got sick at the idea of losing my feet to those little…. You aren't buying this, are you?" Ander asked innocently.

Ander and Dramerhiel stood in the opening gate of The Arena. Ander was armed with a claymore and a bow, while Dramerhiel was armed with four short swords.

"Good job, smart one. Now what are we gonna do?" asked Dramerhiel in a furious voice.

"Well, obviously, we are going to win." Ander replied.

"Follow my lead and we just might. And if we get out of this, _you_ are going to be cleaning the Red Room. You made the mess."

"Oh sure, whatever."

"Don't get smart, Pit Dog. You got us into this and I have to get us out. You're buying dinner again after this."

"Good citizens of The Empire," began the commentator, "welcome… to The Arena! It looks like The Blue Team is in for some punishment after an incident in The Red Room (all interested combatants are asked to kindly wait to join until further notice). And what better way to receive rightful comeuppance than to fight three four-against-two death matches! And so, may I introduce The Yellow Team's four combatants! The first two are the two Wood Elf twin sisters you have come to know and love, teamed up with The Wielder of the Grey Aegis and Shimmerstrike! This should be interesting!"

The commentator continued with his banter and the probability of each outcome of the matches for a while. During this time, Ander and Dramerhiel hatched a plan.

"Look, Ander, just gimme the bow and I'll give you two short swords. We'll just have to make the rest up as we go, but stick to the opening plan, yeah? That'll buy us at least some time alive"

"Yeah, sure."

Ander took the bow and quiver from his back and gave them to Dramerhiel. In turn, Dramerhiel took two short swords from his belt and gave them to Ander. Ander took them and concealed them up his sleeves. Dramerhiel tied the quiver to his belt and knocked five arrows, spreading them precisely one quarter of an inch apart from each other and holding the bow horizontally. Ander nodded, unsheathed his claymore, and rested the blade on his shoulder.

"And now, the moment you've been waiting for! Lower the gates!" the commentator cried with glee.

And with that, the gates rumbled and retracted into the ground. Ander and Dramerhiel looked at each other, nodded, and strolled out into the field. The Yellow Team's combatants looked surprised at the two Blue Team suicidal morons, shrugged, and charged to meet them. They did not know that they were running to their death. Ander hefted his claymore off of his shoulder and threw it with all his might, sending it spinning furiously towards his opponents. This caught the Wood Elf sisters by surprise, and they were quickly beheaded in a spray of blood by the lethal projectile. The two Bretons -- The Grey Aegis and Shimmerstrike -- watched their allies get decapitated with a stupefied horror. The blade flew past them and went halfway through the Yellow Team Red Room door.

After performing his deadly attack, Ander immediately threw himself to the ground while Dramerhiel drew back his arrows and fired. The arrows fanned out so fast that The Yellow Team duo barely saw them coming. Two of them sank deep into Shimmerstrike's chest, while The Grey Aegis caught three of the arrows on his shield. Shimmerstrike fell to his knees, a thick trail of blood pouring from his mouth. Looking up, he saw a crazed dark elf rushing towards him wielding a single arrow in his hand, and looking at his throat. Amazed that this was how he was going to die, he closed his eyes and waited for the cold, merciless pierce of the arrow to rip through his flesh. The moment came none too quickly, and he slumped forward, dead.

The Grey Aegis looked down at his dead comrades in disgust, drew his silver short sword, and rushed his two opponents. He was about five feet away from The Blue Team combatants and was beginning to recite a spell that would reduce his enemies to ash when the Imperial drew two short swords from his sleeves. The elf hit the floor this time as the Imperial spun around in a deadly whirlwind of razor sharp iron. Going too fast to stop, The Grey Aegis' head fell to the ground with a soft _thump_. The crowd erupted with deafening cheers. Ander and Dramerhiel took this all in with happiness when they heard a door slam behind them.

Turning around, Ander saw a Nord armed with a short sword, an Orc armed with a monstrous war hammer, a Khajiit with a battle ax, and a Dark Elf with a bow. The crowd was on its feet, waiting to see what their two new favorites were going to do next, what amazing feat of skill and courage they were going to perform to earn their right to live with a roof over their head.

Ander knew what the crowd was yearning for, and decided to have some fun with them before he died. Casting a look at his opponents, who were slightly unnerved at the sight of three headless fighters and one with an arrow embedded so far into his throat that only the fletching was sticking out the front, Ander tightened his grip on his short swords, took a step forward, then sat down.

In the history of The Arena, it had never been dead quiet while filled with spectators until that day.

The Orc war maiden looked down at the pitiful being in front of her, snarled, and charged forward, while the others took a step back from the mad Imperial. The Orc was 10 feet away from Ander now. Ander looked up, uninterested. 7 feet; Ander yawned. 5 feet; he stuck his swords into the ground at his side. 3 feet, and the Orc raised her hammer, which was the size of a child. 1 foot; Ander gave a terrifying war cry, yanked his swords from the ground, and slashed forward in an X, cutting the Orc's legs off. Blood sprayed everywhere; the Orc threw her hands into the air, releasing the hammer, fell onto the ground, and writhed in agony. The crowd roared in glee at the first strike of the match. But over the noise, the Orc heard a strange sound: the sound of something heavy falling. Clenching her hands, she then realized something was wrong. Too late.

With a sickening crunch, the massive hammer smashed down on the Orc's head, mixing brain with bone and steel. This was too much for the Yellow Team Dark Elf. Gone insane by the sight of his comrades' gruesome deaths, he drew an arrow, aimed it at the heart of the Blue Team elf, pulled back, and let fly while screaming "You heartless bastard!"

Dramerhiel saw the missile speeding towards him. Seeing no protection, he drew a short sword and slashed at the arrow. To his, the crowd's, and the other combatant's tremendous surprise, he sliced the arrow just under the head. The head went flying in the opposite direction so fast that the Yellow Team Dark Elf was barely aware that it pierced his skull. He slumped to the ground in an instant, dead. The crowd roared in barbaric enjoyment.

Ander looked over at his comrade and nodded. It was his turn. Turning to the Khajiit, he raised an eyebrow in a kind of mock terror as a reaction to the cat's attempt to perform his Eye of Fear technique that all Khajiit learn at birth. The Khajiit snarled and tightened his grip on his ax, his heavy raiment clanking. Ander, pleased that he was getting the reaction that he was aiming for, proceeded to mimic a cat bathing itself and meowing loudly. The Khajiit took a step forward, and the Nord took another step back towards the wall. Ander was still pleased with the results and, turning to the crowd, called out in a loud voice "Hey! Lookit me! I'm a Khajiit! Wanna see me lick my ass?"

This pushed the Khajiit warrior over the edge. Abandoning an attempt at sneaking up on the fleshy monkey and lopping his head off, he flat out bull rushed the Imperial, intent on destroying him down to his very last cell. Sensing that his plan was working perfectly, he quickly spun around and kicked his opponent in the chest. The Yellow Team fighter stumbled backwards into one of the stone pillars. Ander ran up to it, grabbed the chain, jammed his short sword into the lowest link, and threw it around the pillar. The chain wound around the Khajiit a few times, restraining him. The chain grew smaller and smaller, drawing the blade closer and closer. Soon enough, the chain ran out entirely, and the sword went strait into the Khajiit's heart. His eyes glazed over, the light draining from them, his mouth slumped open, blood gushing out. Exhaling an unsteady, rasping breath, he died. His muscles relaxed, and the ax dropped out of his hands.

Turning, the Blue Team fighters faced the Nord. She was standing with her back against a stone pillar across the Arena. Shaking with the mortal fear of death, she fumbled to draw her sword and fight for her life. Dramerhiel looked at Ander, almost asking him to do it so that he wouldn't have this weigh under his conscience. But Ander shook his head. It was his turn.

Dramerhiel sighed, walked over to the Khajiit's corpse, put the ax over the top of his foot, and kicked forward. The ax spun in several circles, gaining speed with every rotation. The Nord, eyes wide with terror, placing her shield in front of her, hoping that the heavy armor she was wearing would protect her from the projectile. Unfortunately, it did not. The armor was cut like warm butter, her flesh like air. It sliced through her midsection, killing her instantly. Her top section hit the ground hard, her bottom half staying erect.

The crowd was hoarse by now, so their cries of brutal euphoria were reduced to cracked sound bytes. Several of them had passed out from hyperventilation. The Gatekeeper was leaping into the air, clicking his heels with glee over all of the money he was earning.

Ander and Dramerhiel braced themselves for the final battle. Sliding the two short swords into his belt, Ander walked over to the corpse of the Nord, took the ax from the ground, walked over to the Yellow Team Red Room door, and crouched. He was tired, and he did not feel like fighting. A sneak attack would have to do for this one.

Dramerhiel took his bow, drew an arrow, knocked it, and hid behind a pillar. Looking across the Arena, he saw Ander in his position, nodded, and re-focused his attention to the entrance. He didn't care what came out of that door; he would fill it with arrows so long as it was wearing yellow.

A few seconds later, the door creaked forward slowly. Ander crept forward and used his ax for a mirror. He saw three Argonians slide forward, barely making a sound other than their heavy breathing. Behind them stood an Imperial. He seemed to be the leader of the group. Armed with an Akaviri Katana, a Blade's shield, and a Blade's helm, he stood noble and intimidating.

Gripping his ax tighter, Ander slid back into a strike position. He could hear their footsteps now. Looking over to Dramerhiel, he held up three fingers and flicked his tongue out. Dramerhiel nodded, taking out another two arrows. He looked back at Ander, who pointed at himself. Ander hoped to Sheogorath that Dramerhiel got the message and wouldn't put an arrow into his back.

Hearing a sword being drawn, Ander turned to see that the Argonians had emerged from the tunnel. They were standing next to him, looking around for their enemies. If there was ever a time to strike, that was it. Rising swiftly, Ander swung the ax horizontally, beheading two.

"Now!" screamed Ander.

Dramerhiel leapt from his hiding place, firing one arrow after the other. One of them shot through the remaining Argonian's ear and flew into the tunnel. The other two buried themselves into the lizard's neck. He slumped down, cold as stone.

Panting, Ander turned away and started towards the door leading to the Red Room when he remembered the Imperial in the tunnel. Turning back, he raised the ax above his head and launched it at full force into the darkness. It sped out of sight with a whirring sound, followed by a loud _kang_ and an explosive swear. The Imperial emerged slowly after about three seconds later, one hand holding half of a shield, a nasty looking cut running across the palm, and the other clutching a katana. The hand looked freshly cut, and the wound was gushing blood.

Signaling Dramerhiel to stay back, Ander drew the short swords from his belt, took a step forward, and stabbed with both arms at the ex-Blade. The Yellow Team Imperial ducked and slashed at Ander's legs. Ander jumped and cut with his swords downward, and the opposing Imperial lunged to one side.

"Your good, friend. Very good." Ander said to his foe.

"The Blades won't let you join if you weren't." He replied.

"That's true. Killing you will be a disappointment."

"We'll see who kills who."

And with that, they rushed at each other. Ander leapt into the air and slashed down, while the Blade rolled under him and stabbed his katana up. The weapons met in a shower of sparks. Turning, the two thrust their swords towards one another and lunged forward. Ander shot his feet down and sidestepped the oncoming Blade.

"Dramerhiel! Shoot him!" Ander shouted.

Dramerhiel took an arrow and rolled out from behind the pillar. He fitted the arrow onto the string, pulled it back to his ear, and let it go in a blink of an eye. The arrow sped towards its target with unnerving accuracy. The Imperial laded on the ground, leapt to his feet, and raised his shield to catch the ballistic dart before it could pierce his skin. Looking at the arrow in triumph, planning his counterattack to quickly dispatch his opponents. The arrow continued to fly with lightning speed. Glancing down casually, the Blade did a double take at his shield. It was then that he remembered that the ax cut it in half. The arrow covered the distance of 20 feet in 3 seconds. The blade tried to turn the shield the right position that would save him, but the handle caught on his armor.

The arrow was about 10 feet from him. He tried to turn his arm, but the armor was too tight. 5 feet. He tried to step out of the way, but he was rooted to the spot with fear. The arrow sped through the gap in his defenses and bit into his skin. Gritting his teeth through the pain, he looked down to see the wound. He smiled to see that it wasn't his heart or liver. The smile quickly faded as he saw where it had embedded itself. His stomach. The Blade looked up to the crowd, exhaled, and fell to the ground, driving the arrow deep into himself.

The crowd roared with approval. Throwing his weapons into the dirt, he turned and walked away from the body of his enemy, nodding to Dramerhiel. The elf nodded back and walked up to the Imperial lying on the ground, took an arrow, fitted it into his bowstring, pulled back, and aimed at the head of the Blade. The Blade looked up into the eyes of his enemy and raised his sword to stab him through the gut. But the elf was faster. He kicked the weapon out of the Blade's hand, and let go of the arrow. It pierced the skull of the Imperial, and his body went limp. Turning, Dramerhiel followed Ander to the Red Room.


End file.
